Happily Ever After in Mexico

by Chrissy

She looked at her grandfather and smiled to herself. How on earth did he manage to eat with only 2 teeth in his head? Good thing she was resourceful with soup concoctions. She had brought her trusty blender this time and everything was puréed so that he could swallow nourishment without chewing.

"I don't know what you are doing here again, Christina," he mumbled through mouthfuls of soup, his head bent over the steaming bowl. "You are too young to be fussing about with your ancient grandfather. Where is your mother? Why doesn't she come?"

"Oh, grandfather, you know why I come here. I need to pick up more guitars to paint. They sell like hotcakes back in Mexico City. I'm making a good living. And," she smiled warmly at him, "You benefit too. There's no way you could sell enough to make a living in this god forsaken town."

He looked up and smiled. "You do good work with them, Christina. But you are too talented to be painting and decorating my guitars. You should be painting canvasses. I've seen your work."

"Oh, but the tourists love them. They eat them up. It's much harder to sell paintings. People want the guitars. I've told you all this a thousand times, grandfather. We have this conversation every time I come here."

"I don't know why you come," he grumbled again. "You should be busy with a family. Your mother was married with six children when she was your age," the old man sighed grumpily, then returned to his soup. "You are wasting your life."

A stab of irritation went through her. "For heaven's sake, Pappy! I'm only 28. There's plenty of time for marriage and six kids. Anyway I like being here. It's peaceful … and beautiful," she added her thoughts travelling to the real reason she came, the real reason she stayed for days, the real reason she found this quiet village in the middle of nowhere so incredibly irresistible.

It was him. The mariachi.

She remembered the first time she had laid eyes on him. Amidst this village of unfinished guitars and old men his youth and beauty was unexpected causing the breath to stop in her throat. Moving with a careful grace, he had strolled through the maze of guitars, the strains of a sad melody coming from a guitar in his hands. He walked slowly and appeared in great pain. The old men at the stalls moved aside with respect, allowing him to pass, although he never once raised his eyes. His looked only at the fingers that moved so skillfully on the guitar in his hand. His hair was long and straight and fell into his eyes. He wore no shirt, his chest bare except for bandages wrapped around a strong torso and so white against the glistening bronze of his body. The black pants that clung to his loins were adorned with silver chains and studs that glinted and flashed as he moved. She had stared opened mouthed, momentarily unaware of anything around her.

"He's inside a nightmare," her grandfather had remarked, seeing her wide eyed look. "He wants to die."

The old men of the village of unfinished guitars gathered around and told her the story of the mariachi. It seemed his wife and child had been brutally shot before his eyes. He lay atop the bodies of his family, his blood soaking the ground around them. He remained for a night and a day as the dead bodies beneath him became cold and rigid. He refused to move. He refused help. He pushed the villagers away. He wanted to die along with his wife and child. But the women of the village had pulled him finally unconscious from the bodies and had taken him in and nursed the bullet wounds. Whether he liked it or not - he had lived.

"The physical pain passes, but the pain of the spirit is without end," her grandfather had said, his eyes shifting beyond her to stare at the man.

That was a year ago. And she could never get the tragic mariachi out of her head. With the excuse that she could sell her grandfather's guitars if she decorated them with distinctive Mexican scenes, she made several trips a year to the small village. Each time she stayed longer. Each time she fell more in love with the beautiful man with no name.

He remained in the village of unfinished guitars. He was strong and healthy now. But still he moved with the weight of sadness. Like he was in pain. And probably he was. He rambled among the stalls of guitars, aloof, never seeing her, never seeing anything except his grief.

Her grandfather finished his soup and she took the bowl from him. "You go lie down, Pappy, I'll tidy up."

Her grandfather's house was small, but cozy. It was soon tidied, the dishes cleaned and put away. She watched as the old man stretched out on the sofa to sleep. He had insisted that she take the bed. Once he was asleep she tugged a gaily colored Mexican shawl about her shoulders and walked out into the night.

It was cool for once. A soft breeze played in her long hair as she meandered along the path. She knew where she was going, it was a path she always took at this time of night. She was soon in the centre of the village, deserted now, the displays of guitars packed away for the night.

She stared at the huge structure he called home. Looming dark, empty and devoid of life, almost derelict. Yet still he lived there, alone. Always alone. "He's inside a nightmare," she remembered her grandfather's words.

Throwing back her head she looked up at the sky. The cool evening wind had scurried away the clouds of the day and the black sky was now filled with a million twinkling stars. She gazed up open mouthed, her mind overwhelmed with the mysterious enormity and magnificence of the universe. Did others live up there with the stars? Were they ever sad and lonely?

All at once a movement caught her eye. Her breath caught in her throat as she realized he had come out into the night and sat straddling the railings of the balcony that surrounded his property. A guitar, his only and constant companion, was strung over one shoulder and, as she watched, he took it into his hands and began to play. The familiar mournful strains drifting through the night. She wondered about the tune he always played, it was so sad, so incredibly sad.

Worried that if he looked down he would see her she moved closer to the wall of his home out of his sight line. Leaning back against the warm plaster, she closed her eyes as the melancholy strains washed over her. Her thoughts were filled with him. She loved him. She had never said one single word to him, but she loved him.

After a while the music stopped and the night was silent once more. She moved from the wall and turned to head home. It was getting late, her grandfather would be worried.

"What are you doing here?"

Her heart jumped in surprise and she stopped dead in her tracks. He was right behind her.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, her heart almost pounding from her chest. Still not daring to turn around, she felt the heat of him as he moved closer.

"Don't apologize," he came round to face her and she was surprised to see a smile of amusement in his eyes. She could not ever remember seeing him smile. The whiteness of his teeth was startling against the suntan of his skin.

He stared at her for a moment, and then pointed a finger in recognition. "I know you. You're the granddaughter of Jose, my beloved guitar-maker."

"Yes," she smiled back, her nervous system in disarray, "My name is Christina."

They stood in silence for a few moments. Christina looked down, she could not continue to meet his eyes. They were too beautiful, too intense. Her heart surged and pounded, her breathing became rapid and shallow.

"Your grandfather is a skilful guitar maker," he said breaking the silence.

"I know," she replied, her voice unnaturally high, "I paint the guitars he makes and I sell them in Mexico City."

He smiled. "So I've heard. I would like to see some of your painted guitars."

Sick with nerves, and feeling stupid for her foolish schoolgirl reactions, Christina made an effort to regain her poise. "Sure," she said, meeting his gaze again. "Any time."

"Will you be back here tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course. I am staying with grandfather for the rest of the week."

He turned away. "Then I will see you tomorrow, Christina. You can show me your work." And with that he disappeared into the shadowy doorway of his home.

She tossed and turned all night, unable to sleep, excitement making her crazy. Tomorrow! He would see her tomorrow! What should she wear? How should she style her long, dark hair? She wanted so much to impress him. This was the first time he had ever noticed her, the first time they had ever spoken words to each other.

"Why are you bringing all those guitars today?" her grandfather asked next morning as she loaded the back seat of the car. It was hot already and she felt the sweat break out between her breasts. She was wearing a new push-up Wonder bra. It gave her cleavage. But it made her perspire.

She pulled at the lacy thong she wore beneath her shorts. She had no idea these things were so uncomfortable. But at least she felt sexy. She needed to feel sexy. For him. "I thought I might put them up for sale," she called over her shoulder. "Get in the car, Pappy."

"You're wasting your time, girl. You know that. Your decorated guitars sell in Mexico City, not here."

"I was talking to the mariachi," she muttered indifferently, climbing into the car and starting the engine.

"The mariachi?" her grandfather frowned in confusion and then turned to her in surprise. "You mean El Mariachi?"

"Yes." She flicked back her hair and jacked up the AC. "El Mariachi himself."

"Turn that down! Christ! I can't stand cold air blowing in my face."

"Just twist the blower away from your face, Pappy." The cool blast of air felt good on her own flushed skin. She tugged at the low cut white halter exposing more breast. The thong cut into her groin, pulling at her pubic hairs, and she shifted in the seat.

"El Mariachi spoke to you? When? I don't remember."

"Well you weren't there."

"I don't understand - he never talks to anyone."

"Well, he talked to me. He wants to see my painted guitars. He specifically asked me to bring them today for him to see."

Her grandfather leaned close, "You be careful, Christina."

She frowned, staring ahead through the windshield. "Why?"

"There's things about El Mariachi you don't know."

"Like what?"

"He's unafraid."

"Unafraid? What on earth are you talking about, Pappy?"

"He's not afraid of death. A man who is unafraid is invincible. That's why he protects us."

She sighed with exasperation. "Okay, I'll go along with this. What do you mean? - He protects us? What does he protect you from?"

Her grandfather was silent for a moment. He chuckled to himself. "You're young and foolish. You live in another world. A safe world. But he is our defender. Without him there would be no village of guitars."

"What! You're telling me all those toothless old men making guitars from morning till night need a mariachi to defend them?"

"He's killed. He's killed many times. He will kill again."

She bit back the urge to laugh out loud. Her grandfather was surely losing it. She glanced at him and was surprised to see the serious expression in his eye. He appeared to be totally rational and in control.

"You stay away from El Mariachi," her grandfather warned soberly. "He's dangerous."

Well, that makes him even more enticing, she thought to herself as she parked by the many stalls of the market square. She jumped from the car and opened the trunk. She began hanging her painted guitars on display.

Her grandfather ambled to his favourite seat in the shade. "You stay away from him, girl," he said again.

The morning passed slowly. Flies buzzed in her face as she pulled another Diet Pepsi from the cooler. No one came to purchase guitars, of course. Some of the villagers set out their wares for sale. Colourful blankets, scarves. But no one came. Only the fruit and vegetable vendors made sales that day.

Christina watched the sun rise in the sky. It was hot and humid. She glanced at the house that dominated the square, expecting him to stroll from the doorway at any second.

"Why didn't you bring your paints?" Her grandfather asked as he carefully sanded down his latest creation. "You could be working instead of sitting there twiddling your thumbs."

"It's hot. I don't feel like it," she returned grumpily, her eyes wandered again to the mariachi's home.

"He's had other women hankering after him, you know," her grandfather startled her by his words.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I might be old but I ain't stupid. You're hot for him. I can see it. You're like a bitch in heat."

"Grandfather!!" she stared aghast, hoping the old men in the vicinity had not heard.

Her grandfather continued to sand the curved wood in his hands. "He's the kind of man women want. On the outside, that is. But inside he's all messed up. Women have tried - prettier women than you, Christina."

Well, thanks - she thought to herself, pulling at the uncomfortable thong.

"But they failed," her grandfather went on. "He wants no one. He needs no one. No woman can replace Carolina."

"Carolina? Oh, his dead wife?"

"He wants no other woman. You are wasting your time."

It seemed her grandfather was right for the afternoon turned into early evening with no sign of the mariachi. She felt let down, despondent. They were about to pack the car and leave, when she stiffened, there was a shift in the air. Her skin turned to goose-bumps. A flock of birds screeched suddenly as they soured across the darkening sky. Without turning her head to look - she knew that he approached. The very atmosphere seemed to crackle with electricity.

"Hello, Christina," his warm rich voice surrounded her. Heart pounding she turned to face him. He wore a white shirt under a black wool mariachi outfit decorated with silver chains. She had never seen him wear anything else.

"These are impressive," he said his hand sliding across one of her guitars. "I recognize this," he said suddenly smiling.

"Yes, it's your house. It's so beautiful. I hope you don't mind that I've painted its likeness onto grandfather's guitars."

His smile widened. "Why would I mind?"

The abundant masculine sexuality flowing from him was potent, paralyzing her thoughts. She sought for something to say.

"They sell really well…" she continued weakly, her knees beginning to buckle.

Shoving his long straight hair behind one ear, El Mariachi continued his survey of her guitars, nodding his admiration. "Yes, I like them all." He turned his attention back to her and she felt her heart flutter painfully under his gaze. "I cannot chose which one."

"Oh," she gasped, delighted that he actually wanted one of her guitars.

She was aware of her grandfather approaching. "We're just leaving," he said to the mariachi.

"Ahh! Jose," the mariachi shook her grandfather's hand and slapped him on the back. Christina realized that despite what her grandfather had said, there was a great respect and love between the two men. "Your granddaughter brings your guitars alive with colour and image."

The old man smiled toothlessly. "Take one, any one. It's yours"

The mariachi shook his head. "I will pay, old man. I will pay the going rate. But I cannot chose."

"What about this one," Christina held out the guitar she loved the most.

He took it from her and studied the art work. "Is this me?" he asked with a grin.

She lowered her eyelashes shyly. "Yes, you were re-stringing a guitar and I couldn't resist capturing your likeness."

"It's very good." He returned, amusement seemed to dance in his eyes. "But I will leave it for the crazy tourists in Mexico City." He took up the guitar that was painted with the portrait of his home. "I prefer this. Come up to the house and I will pay you."

To her surprise he took her hand in his.

"We're just leaving for home," her grandfather interjected. "You can pay us tomorrow."

Christina was further surprised when the mariachi's hand tightened possessively around hers. She turned to her grandfather. "You drive home, Pappy. I can walk back. It's a lovely night."

Her grandfather hesitated. "It's too far, Christina. It's getting dark. I don't like you walking at night. There's poisonous snakes in the high grass."

The mariachi stepped forward. "When we are finished, I will walk Christina home, Jose. She will be safe with me."

When we are finished? Finished what? A jolt of excitement rocked through her. What did the mariachi have in mind?

To her dismay her grandfather continued to look dubious. "It's okay, Pappy," she smiled reassuringly. "I'll be home soon. It's only a few miles."

The mariachi released her hand, and she walked over to her grandfather. "Good night, Pappy. I won't be long," she kissed his cheek. "Drive carefully."

The watery brown eyes were anxious. "Don't give your heart to him," he whispered, a look of worried tenderness in his eyes. "You'll be hurt."

She smiled nervously, hoping the mariachi had not heard her grandfather's imprudent words. The car drove off and she turned to the man of her dreams. Her grandfather had reason to worry - she had already given her heart to the mariachi.

"Come inside with me," he invited in the warm twilight.

She followed him through the door and across a large wide courtyard of broken paths and gravestones. As she trailed behind him he began to play the guitar. She followed as if in a dream, a beautiful apparition before her, in his hands, a soulful guitar, its strains guiding her through the shadowy archives of an empty house. Up curving stairways she followed him. He did not once turn to confirm if she followed or not. His head down, concentrating on the guitar in his hands, following silently, his music ushered her into his lair.

At last he stopped and turned to her. "This is my home," he smiled a welcome, taking off his mariachi jacket and tossing it across a chair.

She looked about. It was small and comfortable. A cozy nook. The large house was but a shell, this was the hub, the core of his life, his haven.

At least a dozen guitars were scattered around the room. "So many guitars," she murmured under her breath.

"What?" he asked, carefully resting her painted guitar against the wall.

"So many guitars," she said louder, "I said you have so many guitars…" her eyes widened as she looked about. "And guns," she added with sudden realization, for the room was littered with guns on every surface.

Maybe her grandfather had been telling the truth. It wasn't all nonsense. Why did he have so many guns?

"Why do you have so many guns?" the words spilled out before she could stop them.

"Are you frightened?" he asked and she realized her body had tensed, and he had noticed.

"No," she returned too quickly, dragging her eyes from the array of firearms surrounding her. "I was just a bit taken aback to see so many weapons."

"I have them because they represent a part of my life. Just as the guitars represent another."

Guitars and guns. Guns and guitars. She stared about. She was inside an episode of Sesame Street - G is for…

"Grandfather says you protect the village," she blurted, her cheeks beginning to flame. It was all going so unexpectedly. "He says you have killed people."

He crossed the room to her, his movements accompanied by a chorus of metallic clanks as the chains on his black pants and the one spur on his boots jingled to the rhythm of his steps. He stood before her looking down into her eyes, a gleam of amusement in his own amber depths.

"I have," he murmured softly, his eyes challenging hers. "I have."

"Oh." She didn't know what to say, how to react. Was he teasing? But the guns! All these guns! It must be true! So many guns. She was alone with a killer and his guns. Yet as the panicky thoughts filled her head, she was aware of a stronger thrill of excitement. The mariachi was a dangerous man. Handsome and dangerous. Add another 'g' word to the mix. Guitars, guns and good looks. What more could a woman want?

He stood so close to her, she could smell the earthy masculinity of him, she could see coarse chest hairs curling from the opening of the white shirt he wore.

To add to her agitation he raised his hand and gently stroked the palm across her cheek. "Don't be afraid of me," he whispered.

"Oh, I'm not," she returned too quickly, too loudly, too aware of his closeness.

He moved even closer, his warm breath caressing her skin, "Yes, you are," he said. "I think that you are."

She felt momentarily uncertain, standing so close to him, their lips almost touching, the moment was so sensuous, yet he was making fun of her.

"I..." she started, but he leaned down and his lips touched hers. She swayed toward him, his arms came around her waist and roughly he pulled her in against his body. Their mouths came together with tongue devouring violence, passionate demanding, she strained against him, all rationale thought gone from her head.

The kiss ended as suddenly as it had begun, he looked at her strangely, his eyes slightly narrowed.

"I'm sorry for that," he whispered before releasing her from his hold. Then he spun on his heel leaving her empty and alone. "Here, I will pay you. How much is the guitar?" He began pulling open several drawers in a wooden dresser.

Christina stood watching him, her emotions in disarray. The kiss. His kiss. The taste of him. His tongue on her tongue, his arms around her. She wanted to feel him again. She wanted his body against hers. Why was he stomping about the room looking for money to pay? Why did he move away? What was he doing?

"Here's money for the guitar," he suddenly thrust pesetas at her.

"It's too much," she muttered in confusion. "Way too much."

"Take it. Take it," he cried impatiently. "We have to go."

"Go?" What was he talking about? "Where do we have to go?"

"Er…we must go for a drink. I know a place. A bar. A nice bar. Dark. A bit dangerous .."

She wanted to laugh, but he seemed so serious. She watched as he pulled on his mariachi jacket and took down a guitar from the wall. There was something very different about the guitar.

"But why can't we stay here?" she gasped in confusion as he grabbed her hand.

"Come on," he snarled, dragging her from the room. Almost falling, tripping on her strappy sandals she had no alternative but to follow him - her head full of questions. What on earth was happening?

He ran lightly down the stairs, her hand still in his as she followed. She wanted to ask him what was going on, but suddenly it all seemed very exciting. A bar! A dangerous bar!

She stopped dead as they arrived outside. " … We're going on a bike?"

But he wasn't listening. He straddled the bike, arranging the guitar so it hung across his chest, then he motioned to her. "Come on, get behind me."

She stared aghast at the huge burgundy red Harley Davidson motorbike. It gleamed ominous and huge in the moonlight. He revved the engine sending spiel of white exhaust fumes into the air.

A quick tug at the uncomfortable thong and she flung her leg across the noisy monster of a bike and wrapped her arms around his waist. They were off in a flurry of dust and clamor, the gritty wind stinging her face and she buried her head into the soft wool of his jacket, suddenly realizing that the design was in the shape of a scorpion.

'I guess they don't have helmet laws in these parts,' she thought to herself, as he swerved the bike onto the dirt road that lead to the next town. The bike speeded up, she clung to him, her head resting against his back, her long hair soaring in the wind. The engine noise was deafening, they raced through a night that was too dark to see, so she closed her eyes and sighed with the tingling pleasure of holding him so closely. She could feel his flat hard stomach. But her fingers also rested on something else. What was it? No it wasn't THAT! It was the butt of a gun. A gun? He had a gun tucked in his pants. Her heart jerked painfully. Oh God - he had brought a gun with him. What kind of a bar were they going to?

As the thought flitted through her head, he swerved the bike to a squealing halt, spraying gravel and sand into the air.

"We are here," he announced, helping her from the bike. She looked about as he swung an arm around her shoulder and firmly guided her to the door. The guitar was now slung across his back and she wondered if played for the customers. It all seemed so strange.

The neon light across the low doorway read "The Customer is Always Wrong". They swung open the door and entered. Christine looked about. The bar was dimly lit with many candles, and the smoke that hung over it was thick as a morning fog. At one end was an unpretentious neon lit bar. Boxes were stacked high against every wall. Stools and tables and chairs were packed tightly, leaving little room to pass between them. As El Mariachi lead the way to a table in a far corner, Christina became aware that the hum of voices stopped and that every eye turned to survey them. The many inhabitants of the bar appeared to be primarily male, although a few women wandered from table to table. As she sat down, Christina realized the unsavory clientele watched them with shrewd pitiless eyes.

A tense hush had fallen over the place, everyone seemed to be holding their combined breath. "What'll it be?" called the barman in a nervous voice.

"Beer, two beers," returned the mariachi. Christina felt momentarily annoyed that he did not ask her what she wanted, but then she realized they would never have the opportunity to partake of anything. Things were happening. Within the dimness the mob was converging and moving in close, all of them glaring with malicious grins, all of them reaching for guns.

Eyes glassy with fear, she stared about. Under the table she felt the mariachi's strong hand on hers, "Here take this, it's loaded," and she felt the cold steel of a gun placed into her hands.

"Oh God, I can't." she started, but he had stood up, scraping back his chair. Wetting his fingers with his tongue he pinched out the candle that burned on their table.

A hush fell over the bar. All time stood still as he leisurely took the guitar into his hands and began to pick a tune, its rhythm seeming to speed up with the tension in the room.

He flicked back his long hair and then there was gunfire. Who started first she didn't know but her mouth almost dropped to the floor as she watched the guitar in his hands become an automatic weapon. Bullets and flame burst from its neck, mowing down the hoodlums that approached with their own guns firing. The place was in turmoil.

She screamed in terror. "Head to the door," El Mariachi yelled. "And get the bike started."

Still screaming she made her way through the chaos of bullets, bodies and mayhem. "I can't start a bike!" she yelled back. "I don't know how."

"Here's the keys," he returned, a fresh blast spewing from his guitar-gun. She caught the keys in her palm, almost dropping the gun as she backed toward the door. Suddenly a hand caught her long hair and snapped her head back, almost toppling her to the ground. A heavy set bandito, his face greasy in the candle light, his eyes wild with hate, his grin wet and malicious, caught her and spun her into his arms.

"A kiss before dying," he grunted, pursing his slobbering lips, a gun in his fleshy hand.

A dead man fell against them, knocking her off balance and the man tightened his grip.

"A kiss, senorita, a kiss before death." He smiled nastily.

"YOUR death, not mine," she snarled back as she shoved the barrel of the gun into his fat stomach and pulled the trigger. He fell to the ground with a solid thump, a look of astonishment in his eyes.

"Christina! Go! Go!," yelled El through clenched teeth. His long hair flew about as he moved sure footed as a matador and nimble as an animal defending its lair. Several of the man were now close enough to tackle him and he darted amid the fracas of desperadoes, felling them with swift blows. But there were too many, he could not fight them all. El Mariachi was losing the battle.

Something snapped inside of Christina. Another man grabbed her and with an agonized scream of rage she smashed her fist into the side of his face, bruising her knuckles and knocking him to the ground. Her face darkened. Her reactions became swift partly through fear and her own violent instincts of self-preservation and partly because she loved him and she would not have him die. Her teeth clenched, her eyes flared to a murderous blaze, taking up the heavy gun, its metallic glow glittering in the dimness, Christina fired and fired again. She did not stop until the mariachi stood alone amid the bodies.

As the smoke of the gunfire cleared he stared at her with a kind of admiration she had never seen before. "Thank you," he said softly. There was wonder in and speculation in his voice. Then he grabbed her hand and pulled her to the door. "Come on, let's get out of here."

Carefully stepping over bodies they exited the now silent bar. Outside in the starry night, he turned to her. "It's true. You have the soul of Carolina," he murmured, his voice low with respect. "When we kissed I knew. I knew you were the one."

Christina was reeling. Realization was just beginning to dawn on her. She could not believe what she had done. She had killed people. Lots of people. And she had the cool nerve to feel aloof about it. She would do it again if need be.

"Who were they?" she asked tentatively, her voice soft. "All those men I shot. Who were they?"

He took her shaking hand into his and kissed the palm. "Murderers who took away my baby, my wife, my reason to exist," he whispered through tight lips. "Now they walk in hell with the devil."

She knew she should be angry with the mariachi. He had placed her in enormous peril. Without consultation or forewarning he had enlisted her assistance in a fight that was not hers. He had brought her here to this place filled with danger and she had been put into the position of having to kill to defend herself. Yes, she should hate him for doing this. But she did not.

Instead she felt exhilarated. Liberated. Intoxicated with the excitement of it all. She had successfully defended herself. She was strong. She was fearless. Courageous and bold. She had no idea such strengths dwelled within her.

"You are my brave defender," El Mariachi, lifted her chin so that her eyes looked into his. "I would be dead without you."

"I don't know what came over me," she stuttered, her eyes dropping to his lips, so soft and velvety in the moonlight. "I didn't even know I could shoot a gun."

He kissed her softly. "Let's go home," he smiled.

Again they tore through the night on the Harley. She snuggled against him, feeling his warmth, loving his strength.

Once again they climbed the stairs to the small group of rooms he called home.

She felt they were a couple arriving home after an exhausting day at work. She flicked off her sandals and flopped into the confines of a cozy sofa. The mariachi removed the gun-guitar from his shoulder and carefully stowed it inside a cupboard.

Removing his jacket he turned to her. "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"That would be nice," she answered with a sigh. She ran her fingers through her hair and leaned her head back, closing her eyes.

Still with her eyes closed she felt him sit beside her. "Here," he offered her the glass.

"Well, how do you top off a night like this?" she smiled at him, taking a sip.

"I have a good idea," his grin was teasing, mischievous, flirting.

He leaned in, his seductive amber eyes on hers, and he kissed her gently. "We dance," he whispered in her ear.

"Dance?" she gasped in surprise. "We dance?"

She watched bewildered as he crossed the room and hit a button on the small CD player. Immediately the strains of a soulful guitar filled the room.

"Is that a recording of you playing?' she asked although she knew it was. Although she had never spoken with him before, she had heard him play many times. Enough to recognize the special way he made a guitar come alive in his hands.

He smiled and took her hand, raising her to her feet. "We dance," he said, his voice purred warm and deep. "I'm not really very good," she stuttered, as his right arm slipped around her waist pulling her in to his body.

"Neither am I," he returned.

He began to move - swaying to the rhythm, so graceful and light footed - and she realized that he lied. He was good. He could dance. Of course he could dance. He moved with a confident ease, his body guiding hers. With a contented sigh, she molded into him and his arm tightened around her. He bent his head and his mouth came down on hers. Opening her own lips, Christina returned the kiss with wild abandon, forgetting everything, straining toward him with a longing to be enveloped and crushed. Once again she had a sense of plunging disappointment when he released her, as if she had been cut off in the midst of a dream. He smiled, his fingers passing over her face, lightly caressing. They gazed into each other's eyes. The music had stopped on the CD.

"Why do you shut yourself away like this?" she heard herself blurting into the sudden silence. "You must get terribly lonely". He stiffened and then released her. Oh God! She wished she could bite back the words. He was such a private man, and she had invaded that privacy. Whether or not he was lonely was his business - not hers. The romantic moment was spoiled, she watched as his jaw tightened. He moved away, his head down, his long straight hair falling into his eyes. Taking up the glass he took a long drink of the wine, as she stood watching him, unsure of herself.

"I have my memories," he whispered, throwing back his beautiful head and draining the glass.

She began a flow of apologies, but he held up a hand - still not looking at her.

"Do not worry about me, Christina. I welcome solitude."

"It's none of my business, I should never have said anything," she cried, taking several steps toward him. She wanted to take him into her arms.

"Maybe you should go home to your grandfather." He poured more wine.

She stopped dead. Her heart dropped to the floor. "I don't want to. I want to stay here with you." There was a hint of pleading defiance in her tone. "I've been gone so long anyway. Grandfather is not expecting me to return tonight."

They stood and stared at each other for many seconds. He sighed. He seemed to be considering. And then she saw his features soften. He even smiled.

"Grandfather may come here looking for you," he muttered with a raised eyebrow of teasing amusement.

Relief flooded through her. El Mariachi was smiling. "I'm not afraid of Pappy," she fell into his mood.

The smile continued to warm his eyes, "Ahh, but I am."

"Don't worry," she grinned, the knots in her stomach beginning to diminish "If he comes, I will protect you. Don't you remember? I am your brave defender."

But he had become serious once again. "Are you sure you want to spend the night with me? I am a man. I have needs like any other man. I will have expectations."

She took a deep breath. "Up until now my life has been frivolous and dull," she murmured. "Tonight you have made me come alive. I am eager to meet your expectations."

"And tonight you have kept me alive. I would be dead without you."

"I still can't believe it," she returned passionately, "I still can't believe I shot all those men."

"You have the soul of Carolina. My Carolina could fell seven men with seven knives all at the same time."

Christina was suitably impressed, but she didn't want to discuss Carolina's achievements. She wanted to bring the conversation to the present moment.

"So? Mariachi? - Am I staying the night?"

"It's what we both want," he returned.

His bedroom was small and cozily masculine. The walls were painted an unusual luminous green, the bed cut from heavy dark oak, the sheets soft burgundy cotton.

She thought she might feel awkward for they hardly knew each other. Yet in the few hours they had spent together they had lived a lifetime. And he had made it perfectly clear he wanted to make love to her. She liked that about him. She knew where she stood. He wanted her and she wanted him. No games. No pretending. No wasted time with social small talk and pleasantries.

They were going to have sex. And with a man such as the mariachi she knew it would be sizzling hot and totally satisfying.

The minute they entered the bedroom he pulled her into a kiss, crushing her against his hard body. The kiss was passionate and wonderful, but soon his lips left hers and trailed down to her breasts. With a quick expert movement the halter-top was gone and the infamous Wonder bra unhooked and swept aside. His teeth nibbled the stiffening nipples sending a jolt of excitement down to her groin.

As they stood in the shadowy bedroom, engulfed in each other arms, she kicked off her sandals and felt herself drop down several inches. He seemed to tower over her, her body lost in his as his lips and hands roved from her breasts down to the waistband of her skirt. She wore a soft linen Mexican peasant skirt with an elastic waistband. It was easily slipped down her body. And then his hands found the lacy thong.

He pulled back with a smile. "What's this?" he asked, his breath rough and eager with growing passion.

"It's called a thong," she returned, her own breath coming in gulps. "Do you like it?"

With one finger the lace snapped and broke and catapulted across the room. "Yeah, great if you need a slingshot."

She laughed and fell back on the bed looking up at him with a feigned pout. "I'm naked but you're still dressed, mariachi."

"Not for long, Christina." And he tugged the white shirt over his head and dropped the sexy jingly pants to the floor. Then he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.

She was about to lean up and run her palms over the smooth bronzed muscled back, but from the corner of her eye she saw something glinting in the moonlight.

Chains. Heavy silvery metallic chains.

There were chains linked to the large wooden headboard above her. She stared at them in awe and then fear as her eyes moved down to the handcuffs resting on the pillows.

In the next instant he was on the bed and all over her, his hands, his lips each competing for inches of her flesh. But he sensed her tension and leaned up on one elbow looking at her.

"What's wrong?"

"What are these for?" she asked lifting one of the handcuffs, her eyes large and fearful in the moonlight.

He grinned, his handsome eyes crinkling with amusement. "How adventurous do you feel?" he whispered, a teasing edge to his voice.

"Adventurous?"

"You love adventure. I know you do."

"What are they…?" she asked, afraid to finish the sentence.

"I'll show you - give me your hands."

"But - what?" She started again. Her heart pounded in her ears. He was a goddamn pervert. She was in bed with a goddamn bondage pervert. Yet as the thought flicked through her head, her cunt contracted with wet excited lust.

"You'll like this," he said softly, leaning forward and kissing her on the lips. "I promise."

In the next second the handcuffs were attached to her wrists and her arms gently raised above and behind her head.

She was a prisoner tied to his bed with chains and handcuffs. Her heart banged with dread, yet sexual excitement increased making her sweat. "I'm not sure about this."

"Relax,' he told her softly. "Close your eyes. I promise you will enjoy yourself."

"I don't think I can relax," yet as she said the words she felt her body loosen. She sunk down into the softness of pillows her arms above her, the chains clanking gently as she settled into the bed. It wasn't so bad. Actually it was pretty damn good. Being confined like this. Restrained so he could do anything he liked and she couldn't stop him. It was somehow exciting. A feeling of decadent depravity washed over her.

"There's nothing to be afraid of," he murmured. He kneeled next to her on the bed, dropping kisses the length of her body. His fingers gently stroked her thighs and then moved up inside her. She gasped and squirmed with pleasure.

"I'm not going to do anything you won't like." Again he kissed her, his tongue deep in her mouth, his fingers deep inside her body. She arched, a moan escaping her lips. God - she had never felt so fucking amorally excited in her entire life.

"You are so beautiful, Christina" he was whispering against her skin. She opened her eyes and saw his cock so big, so hard, so beautiful.

"So are you," she said, her eyes returning to his face.

Removing his fingers, he moved to kneel between her legs. "Are you ready for me?" he asked.

"Yes," the word was but a hiss of air. She was so excited, so heated with desire, her body trembled and arched and squirmed about on the bed.

Kneeling between her thighs he took each leg and lifted it over his shoulder. Then he raised up and his huge cock was gently nudged inside. She was so wet he slipped in easily right up to the balls, and he filled her completely. He was so big, so hard. She thought she might climax immediately it felt so good.

He didn't move for a few seconds, but leaned down to kiss her - his long straight hair brushing her hot cheeks. "Okay?" he asked softly.

"Oh yes," she hissed again in a delirium of joy. She was the first to move. She couldn't wait. Her hips rose up wanting him, aching for him.

"Well, hold on tight." And then he began to thrust into her. Gently at first, but then rougher, harder - driving her body into the headboard, the chains clanking, the handcuffs rubbing into her wrists. His arms stretched toward the headboard, his fingers intertwined with hers as he pounded into her. She opened her eyes to see his hair flying with the wild thrusts, her legs straight up in the air as they rested on each broad mariachi shoulder. He thrust with vigor. His eyes closed in absolute pleasure, his face glistened smooth and handsome in the moonlight.

She had experienced orgasms before in her life. But nothing like this. She thought multiple orgasms were a myth. Something you read about in Cosmopolitan magazine. She didn't think they really existed. But it was happening to her right now. The first orgasm shook her body, arched her back, and caused her legs to tense and straighten in the air. She relaxed with a moan thinking it to be over when - incredibly - it built again and another orgasm hit her. Several, in fact, one after the other until she thought she would die of too much pleasure.

But the mariachi would be limited to only one climax and he was building to it now. He drove into her, his fingers gripping hers, his body energetically thrusting up and down. He cried out, his body jerking, before he fell on top of her with a groan.

She tried to embrace him, but was stopped by the chains.

"I want these off," she whispered, pulling at her confines.

His breath ragged, his body glistening with sweat, he sat up, tossed back his hair and popped open each handcuff.

He smiled down at her, "My wild woman," he grinned.

"Next time I'm handcuffing you," she laughed back, rubbing her wrists.

But he shook his head. "Next time we caress, we stroke, we fondle, we feel. Next time there will be no chains"

She couldn't argue with that, she wanted it too. "Well, the time after that, then," she mumbled feebly. "I want you chained to this bed at some point during the night."

He laughed and pulled her into an embrace. "We will sleep for now, Christina."

They settled under the sheets, facing each other, wrapped tightly in each other's arms. Christina sighed and snuggled into the hairs of his chest. She had never felt happier in her life.

She awoke several hours later aware of the soft regular breathing of the man next to her. His arms and legs cradled her, pulling her in tight into his body. There was no better feeling in the world than to awake snuggled in the arms of the man you love.

She smiled with a sudden memory, seeing herself confined by chains to the bed, her legs wrapped around the neck of the thrusting mariachi. The thought made her squirm with pleasure and the warm body next to hers stirred at her movement. "Are you awake, Christina?" he whispered in the dark night.

"Hmm." She cuddled happily into his body, her palms sliding across his smooth muscular back. With a sigh she slid slowly down the bed, her tongue stopping to play at his belly button as she moved down, taking him into her mouth.

She heard him moan with sudden pleasure as her mouth enveloped him. He was hard and smooth, her tongue rubbed the aroused growing cock with a massaging movement. He shifted back and forth on the bed, rolling in pleasure. But after a while his hands came down and cupped her head, pulling her from him. She looked up the length of his body to his face with a questioning look. Why had he stopped her?

"I want you on top of me, Christina," he breathed, shifting his body as she moved up to straddle him. "And I want you inside me, El Mariachi" she responded with a grin. Kneeling across his body, she slowly settled down on him, sliding him inside as slowly as possible, luxuriating in every pleasurable inch. Once again several orgasms assailed her, causing her to cry out. He leaned up to kiss her lips and then flopped back on the pillows, eyes closed. She began to rise up and down, slowly at first but then faster as his hands grasped her hips and worked her into a crazy rhythm that rocked her hard and fast.

The bed shook, the floor vibrated, the windows rattled, so fierce and vigorous was their coupling. Christina never wanted it to end. She had never felt so alive, so excited, so filled with overwhelming pleasure.

The mariachi was approaching climax. His speed increased, his body jerked, rising up, shooting, driving himself inside her. And she bore down to meet every thrust, her eyes closed, her head back, her body wrenching with exquisite multiple orgasms.

Their energies finally spent, she fell back on the bed, her body warm and wet between the legs. He immediately took her into his arms and she snuggled against him, loving his warm embrace.

"I love you," she found herself murmuring - her voiced muffled against his skin. She wasn't sure that he heard and she didn't care. She knew it to be true. It had to be said.

"And I love you," came the soft response. "I love you, Christina."

And with a contented smile she nestled against the beautiful mariachi and drifted into sweet sleep.

***

It was early dawn when she awoke. A morning sun filtered into the room, a sea of dust dancing in its rays. Happiness overwhelmed her and she smiled into the soft cotton pillow, loving the caress of the man in her arms. But then her heart thumped in sudden alarm. Footsteps! She could hear footsteps coming up the stairs. "Someone's in the house!" she cried.

Beside her the mariachi jerked awake. Together they sat up in bed. Without a second thought both grabbed for the nearest gun. As one they checked the magazine and together they cocked their guns and aimed at the bedroom door.

Shoving hair out of her eyes, Christina was armed and ready to fire in one split second, her movements paralleling the speed and dexterity of the mariachi beside her. 'How did I learn to do this?' she wondered briefly, staring in surprise at the gun in her hand. But she had no time to ponder her question as the door to the bedroom slowly opened and a face peered around.

"Pappy!"

It was her toothless old grandfather whose face peeked around the door at them. He showed no reaction to the fact that his granddaughter was sat naked in bed next to the mariachi and that she was pointing a gun at him. Only raw panic and terror filled his wrinkled face.

"What are you doing here?" Christina cried, pulling the sheet around her bare breasts. Beside her the mariachi jumped from the bed and tugged on his jingly pants.

But her grandfather hardly acknowledged her. His worried eyes sought only the mariachi. "The general is coming for you," he cried, his voice cracked and hoarse. "He heard about the shooting at the bar last night. He is angry. He has rounded up what remains of his troops. He is on his way."

"How many are coming?" The mariachi was a blur of movement as he checked the array of guns littered about the room.

Still without any indication that his granddaughter was in the room, her grandfather's eyes continued to follow the mariachi. "Three jeeps. About five men in each jeep."

"How far away?" The mariachi tossed back his hair as he snapped yet another magazine of bullets into a gun.

"About a mile. They'll be here any minute."

"Get out José. Go home."

"But…but...El Mariachi? I cannot leave…"

"Go! We can handle it!"

"We?" For the first time the old man's eyes shifted to his granddaughter.

The mariachi was suddenly still, a smile on his face. "Yes Christina and I. We are a team now. We will manage. You get the women and children inside their homes. Oh…and José…"

"Yes?" her grandfather turned back with a questioning look in his eye.

"I want to ask for your granddaughter's hand in marriage."

Christina gasped out loud, her eyes wide and glassy she looked with astonishment from her grandfather to the mariachi.

For a moment the old man appeared stunned and then a warm grin crossed the wrinkled face.

"You have my consent," he smiled. "She is a lucky woman"

"And I am a lucky man. Now get going. Get going. Leave us."

Once her grandfather was gone, Christina sprang from the bed and pulled on her skirt and halter-top. Outside she could hear the roar of engines and the clamor and shouts of the general's army as they arrived in the village. The retorts of gunshots fired into the air could be heard.

"Take this," The mariachi was all flying hair and swirling action, thrusting a guitar case that he had filled with automatic weapons into her hands. "Come. Come. Take my hand."

"Where are we going?" Christina was dragged from the room, losing a shoe.

"We're going out onto the roof. We will take them from there."

It wasn't a long battle. But it was a deadly one for the general and his men. It was Christina who fired the final bullet into the heart of the general. She saw the stunned look in his eyes as he fell to the ground.

When the dust and gun smoke had settled, the mariachi pulled her into his arms kissing her passionately.

"Will you marry me?" he asked, his handsome amber eyes serious.

"Oh God Yes!" She replied happily. "Yes, I will marry you."

But his expression remained serious. "Every woman I have loved has died."

"Well, I will die too," she stroked his worried brow. "But not for a long long time. We will live happily ever after, mariachi. I promise. You wait and see."

Once again footsteps approached and once again it was her grandfather.

"Thank you," he cried, tears in his eyes. "Finally the general is no more. He cannot terrorize us ever again."

Christina looked over the balcony and down to the large market square below. The people of the village had come from their homes. They were clapping and cheering looking up with smiles at the balcony.

"Is it really over?" she turned to ask the mariachi.

He stood so strong and beautiful in the violet orange dawn, the wind whipping his raven hair playfully about his head. The vision seared itself into her memory. One day she would paint this picture.

He smiled and hugged her into his arms once more. "Yes, It's over. The general is dead. Retribution is done. The devil has them all. It is finally over." He looked down at her. "And our life is beginning. Our life together."

They hugged for a while and then he pulled away. "I hope you can cook?"

"I sure can," she grinned, giving him a quick kiss on the lips.

"Then I can expect a delicious breakfast." He left her arms and strode across the roof.

"Where are you going?" she asked with a frown.

He stopped, narrowing his eyes as he looked into the horizon. "The sun is becoming hot, Christina. The bodies must be buried. These men will be treated with respect and dignity. The people of this village will give them a decent burial. It will take some time. I will be hungry when I return."

"Then I'll make plenty. Enough for everyone."

He smiled and began to walk away. Then he stopped again and turned to her. "Did I thank you?" he asked with a smile.

"For what?" she returned.

"For everything. For saving my life. For giving me back my life. Did I thank you?"

"No" she grinned, head cocked to one side, arms akimbo.

"I will," he said. "I will."